


Faded

by wintergalaxy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 05, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 14:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergalaxy/pseuds/wintergalaxy
Summary: A dress triggers her memories.Or, the sappy mother-daughter one-shot I couldn’t get out of my head.





	Faded

**Author's Note:**

> This is a jumbled idea I had that just spilled onto the page. It’s not much, and it’s probably a mess, but I can never get enough of Clarke and her bond with Madi.

When they give her the dress, the first thing Clarke thinks of is Mount Weather.

She tries not to, she really does. She tries with all that she has to focus on the here and now, since this welcome party is supposed to be a happy occasion, and she knows far too well what reliving the past does to someone. For the last six years, that’s the only thing she’s been doing, and it just about destroyed her. But old habits die hard, she supposes, and as she sinks down on her bunk, eyes on the gorgeous, shimmering blue fabric, a rainbow of images flashes through her mind anyway. Memories of another time, another life, another her. Hypnotizing snapshots of what could have been, if everything had miraculously worked out somehow.

Dante Wallace, rolling the box of clothing to her, telling her to pick whatever she likes. Jasper and Monty, bantering and play-fighting over a slice of chocolate cake. Maya in the corner, smiling, listening to music on that little iPod. Soft classical music playing in the background. Artwork hanging on every wall, each one so beautiful in its own way that Clarke is honored to merely be in its presence.

For some reason, she tries to pull out specific details beyond those—What did the dining hall smell like? How did that sweater feel on her skin? Which specific pieces hung on the wall?—and her heart twists when she finds she can’t. They’re too hazy and unfocused. They’re slipping away from her.

She doesn’t know why the realization hurts so much; she doesn’t know why, considering everything that happened in that place, she’s upset that those memories are fading away, but it it does and she _is_. Maybe it’s because it was the calm before the worst of the storm that was the ground. Maybe it’s because it’s the last time no one hated her for her decisions. Maybe it’s just the fact that they’re all dead now, many by her own hand, that hits the hardest. She doesn’t know. All she knows is how painful it is.

Suddenly, her vision is swimming. Her lip quivers. A tsunami of sadness wells up in her chest. The tears start to spill out despite her trying to hold them back. 

Clarke heaves a huge, shuddering sigh, accepting that she’s not going to be able to keep it in this time. As her body trembles with the weight of a thousand churning emotions, she crawls into the fetal position on her bunk and shifts around. One hand fists the dress; the other covers her mouth, trying to even her breathing and prevent hyperventilation. She half-buries her head in the pillow to muffle the noise she’ll probably make.

A beat passes. She sighs once more, steeling herself. Then she gives in, slackens every muscle, and lets the sobs take her.

And she cries, and cries, and cries, endlessly.

—

It is a long time later, though Clarke doesn’t know how exactly how long, when Madi finds her there. 

She barges into the room with the crashing unsophistication of any child, even though Madi, of course, is reaching that early teenaged phase where she insists she’s not a child anymore, so she would probably take offense to that. Her voice sings with happiness. “Clarke, Clarke, look at my—Clarke? What’s—what are you—is something wrong?”

The noise of the door bouncing off the wall has startled Clarke into an upright position, but not quickly enough for her to erase any evidence of sadness as she normally would. Her tears have stopped for the time being, but her cheeks are still sticky with their remnants, her hair is still plastered in so many flyaways to her face by the moisture, her nose and eyes are still worn from overuse, and her face is still tingling and probably red after being pressed down at an odd angle for so long. All of it’s enough for Madi to notice, even though Clarke has always gone out of her way to hide this sort of thing from her. Clarke feels exposed like this, but she can do nothing but watch as Madi’s wide eyes take in the scene scattered all around her like she is the eye of a hurricane—the dress, now strewn on the floor; her blankets, kicked into a mess when she was writhing around; the leather strap from her confiscated rifle, names of all the dead written forcefully across it, hanging around her neck—before finally landing uncertainly on her.

Madi takes the smallest of steps forward. “Clarke?” she repeats, her voice much quieter, barely more than a whisper. “Are you okay?”

No long-winded, diplomatic platitudes of deflection spring to Clarke’s lips. No strained, masking smile crosses her face to hide it. No stories or fairy tales to explain it away appear in her mind’s eye. 

She is completely, utterly spent. There is no fight left in her for anything, even her façade with Madi. 

So she tells her the truth.

“No,” Clarke says softly, the single syllable a choked garble of a word that barely escapes her throat. She blinks rapidly and tilts her head up towards the underside of the top bunk as more tears immediately prick at her eyes—she’s still trying, futilely, to shield Madi from her. But Madi has seen her now, and deep down, Clarke knows there is nothing to be done about it.

In a blur at her periphery, Clarke registers a flash of brown hair as the girl barrels across the tiny room towards her. Within seconds, she has wrapped her arms around her midsection, squeezing hard as she can, so tight that Clarke can barely breathe. Her head nestles in the crook between her chin and shoulder. She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to: everything she needs to say is communicated beyond speech, in the touch.

Madi does not say the age-old _it’s okay_. It’s hard to be okay, and she shouldn’t be expected to be, after everything that’s happened. No, this hug simply means, _I’m here. You’re not alone_. Clarke knows this because it’s how she used to comfort Madi when she had nightmares. 

How the tables turn.

As Clarke brings her arms up around her and returns the hug, her heart wrenches again. But this isn’t the sadness from before. Rather, it’s a bursting, glowing warmth spreading in her stomach, an overwhelming affection—and pure _love_ —for this plucky, sweet, amazing girl she’s holding. This girl who had to be so strong because of the lot she was dealt in life; who saved her; who taught her how to live again with just a smile. In this moment, she feels at peace, even if the melancholy lurks, biding its time, beneath the surface.

Those memories and that version of her may be drifting away, but Clarke reminds herself: now isn’t bad, just different. Madi is the reason for that.

She is so grateful to call herself her mother. It’s the best thing she’s ever done, finding and raising her.

They stay exactly like that for a while, just holding each other, until eventually, Clarke’s heart rate slows, her breathing evens out, and a drowsy calm settles over her. 

She draws back from Madi to look into her eyes. They blink back at her, bright and blue and questioning. 

“I just got really sad,” says Clarke, by way of explanation. “I remembered some things, about my past, and it hurt really badly all of a sudden. That’s all.”

Madi nods, though Clarke can tell she knows there’s more to it than that. “That’s more than you’ve ever told me before. That wasn’t a story, I mean.” 

Clarke grimaces. “I know, and I’m sorry, honey. But...what you have to understand is that there are some things that I can’t talk about, even with you. I can barely think about them to myself.”

She nods again, this time more accepting. “Okay.” She ducks her head, unsure. “But you know, you can talk to me, Clarke. If you want.”

“I know.” Clarke smiles widely and looks at her— _really_ looks at her—for the first time since she came in the room. 

It is only then that Clarke notices Madi is already dressed up. She’s in a long yellow sundress with a fair number decorative sparkles interspersed across it. Simple, but also bright and lively. Draped over the straps, her hair hangs loose and curly, freed from its usual braid. A subtle eyeliner is just barely visible on her skin. 

She’s beautiful. And here Clarke is, taking her fun and youth away from her.

Decisively, Clarke stands and strides over to the crumpled heap of a dress. She lifts it in Madi’s direction, showing her she’s about to put it on.

“Are you excited?” she asks, as she slips off her gown and steps into the folds of the dress.

Madi jumps up and grins, twirling until her dress has fanned out into a circle like the sun on a cloudless day. “Yes! I can’t wait! This place is so amazing. I love the clothes and I love the food and I love the shower—” She breaks off, collapsing on the bed and giggling. “The shower! It was so weird. I didn’t understand the soap thingies, and I wound up pressing a button that shot a stream of water right into my nose! And then the soap I wanted started coming out of the ceiling and then this _music_ started playing out of nowhere, and I just couldn’t stop laughing, even though I was laughing at myself!”

Clarke smiles along with her. She had her issues with the shower too, and that was even with past knowledge of them. It must be utterly jarring for someone who never had them at all until arriving here, but she’s glad Madi can at least laugh about it.

Now dressed, Clarke wanders into the bathroom to fix up her face. It’s a piece of work to be sure, but she starts the painstaking process anyway. 

Madi chatters away in the other room the entire time, so much that at one point Clarke absently—but affectionately—wonders how she can even breathe between all the words. But Clarke likes it; it keeps her away from the torture that is the endless cycle of thoughts in her head.

Finally, Clarke steps back into the bedroom, ready as she’ll ever be. Her face is rosy and her eyes are bluer than normal, almost matching her dress. Small silver heels cling snugly to her feet. A few shiny bracelets dangle on her left wrist, plain hooped earrings from her ears—somehow, the holes never completely closed up after that day that she was arrested and flung into solitary. She’s more than aware of her plunging neckline, but she’s not embarrassed. She feels amazing. Powerful. 

It’s silly, because she already knows she’s powerful. She doesn’t need some piece of clothing to tell her that. But nothing can erase the fact that as she looks in the mirror, an intoxicating rush of adrenaline pulses through her entire being. 

Slowly, Madi sidles up next to Clarke. She appraises her doppelgänger interestedly and fiddles with a fold in the fabric. 

A moment later, their eyes meet in the reflection. In response, Clarke outstretches her hand towards Madi. She complies, and Clarke laces their fingers together and gives a small squeeze.

“Ready to face the music?” Clarke stops and snorts at herself. “Literally.”

Madi laughs. “As long as you are.” When Clarke nods pointedly to go forward, she pulls her toward the door with a surprising amount of force for such a small person, barely contained anticipation palpable in her movements. 

For a moment as they cross the threshold into the hall, dread creeps into Clarke’s veins—if she’s being honest, she doesn’t know if she’s ready. In that event hall will stand everyone that time and fate built a wall blocking her from for all this time. She’s like a splinter now, an outlier that doesn’t quite fit in the last piece of the puzzle that is their group. Everything that happened with the battle only exacerbates that, though Clarke doesn’t regret a single choice she made as long as it was to save Madi. Does she have a place at all? Or is she just doomed to always be the one on the outskirts, watching as everyone else lives the life she should have had?

Suddenly, another memory cuts into her spiel. She squints and recognizes Jasper, but this is not Mount Weather. It’s Arkadia. He’s hanging off the rover door, his hair shorter and eyes lifeless. That’s when she connects it: this is the last few weeks before the wave.

Jasper approaches her, hatred poorly concealed under his carefree veneer. Clarke watches through a tunnel as he engages with her exhausted, angry teenaged self, jabbing at her decisions and her conscience. She can’t hear most of what they’re saying; this one, too, is faded by time. 

But then, her vision sharpens and focuses. The same shame and defiance as she felt back then washes over her. Rather than watching from afar, she is _in_ that moment. 

She meets his eyes, waiting for the words she’s never quite forgotten.

“No, I don’t want us to survive,” he says. “I want us to live.”

Clarke locks her jaw. She regrets never talking with Jasper before he died. Now it’s just another bridge that can never hope to be repaired, severed from reality by the sudden end of a short life. She aches for the return of the boy in Mount Weather, or the boy who smiled at her in inebriated relief after she saved him from a spear wound. She wants to show him the chocolate cake they have here, because somehow, it’s even better than the other one.

Now, Monty and Harper are gone too, right after she got them back—the kind-hearted, brilliant boy who got pushed into everyone else’s games and the headstrong, happy girl who endured hell with him. They should be here, too. If anyone deserves this sort of happy ending, it’s them, not the assortment of sinners who did manage by sheer luck to make it off the ship. 

She misses them—and so, so many others—with every fiber of her being.

It seems shameful, somehow, to listen to his words. To enjoy herself while Jasper died miserable. To carry on without Monty and Harper, when a week ago, they were young and breathing and right in front of her. To embrace life when she’s the reason it was taken from over a thousand people.

But she looks to Madi, still arm in arm with her, her expression soft and once again that of an unburdened child, and Clarke realizes that she _wants_ to do this. She wants to live—truly live, for the first time in her life.

This realization doesn’t erase the past, but it does fuel her into turning one knob of the gigantic double doors. The light spills out, white and blinding, but she keeps going, head held high. Her eyes quickly adjust, and she walks to the precipice, looks down at the people below, and takes a deep breath.

And then, with Madi, she takes a step forward down the grand staircase. To life.


End file.
